


Vessel of Hope

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Handmaid's Tale - Atwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-04
Updated: 2010-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I force away the memories from before, of sun dresses and naked legs, of lipstick and alcohol, of freedom that never did me any good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vessel of Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Femgenficathon 2010, to prompt 20): _A nomad I will remain for life, in love with distant and uncharted places_. -- Isabelle Eberhardt (1877-1904), Swiss-born explorer of North Africa and author. Thanks to Kelly for the beta!

This is what I like to think:

Our young nation, rising from the ashes of a corrupt and decayed one, is carried forward by a wave of hope and courage; and in the very front line, most eager of all because they have found their place at last, the Soldiers of Life.

These girls, my girls, they are soldiers, risking their bodies to give life, letting their flesh be shredded for the sake of others. And I am their healer, their teacher, their general; I lead them and they follow, as willingly as Ruth followed Naomi.

 

*

 

This is what I like to think. In truth, they are as faithless as Judas, or most of them are, and you can't always tell who. Faithless as Judas, yes, but also blind as newborn kittens and stubborn as unbroken foals. It hurts me, to have to use the cattle prod, to hear their cries and watch their thrashing bodies. It hurts me to the point where I want to moan with them.

And yet I do not lose hope. We belong together, we are women. Some day, when they have fulfilled this duty of theirs, some of them will perhaps come back here to stand like I do, looking at a sea of red, a formless mass yet waiting to find its true shape. They will pick out the faces from the red lump, they will learn how to connect with each and every one of them, to recognise their vain, false dreams, and inspire in them love and fear.

I always use my gentlest voice when I teach.

 

*

 

Longing for recognition is the tool of vanity. I certainly am content to do my duty in the place He has found for me. I do not long for children of my own, I stopped having such dreams years ago. I long for my girls' swollen bellies, their complacency, their faith.

Stop dreaming, Helena says one afternoon. They don't love you.

Her hand around the teacup is fat, fingers like small sausages. Some of them have little hairs on them. She was not a Believer, before; she only was saved after the Liberation. She knows that I know this.

We're guards, she says, Watchers. It's our job. We can't afford to be nice. They don't know what's best for them.

On the last, at least, we can agree. I smile and raise the teacup. None of the girls likes Helena, of that much I'm sure.

 

*

 

Don't think it's easy for me either, I say one day during a lesson, and my voice is thick and raw.

They blink uneasily, they don't understand. How could they? I cover my mouth with my hand again, remove it. I must not lose control. Showing my feelings is good, it helps me connect. But I can't let them question my authority.

It's difficult for all of us, I say, Satan's images are still strong in our minds. Let's learn how to overcome them. Let's pray.

Afterwards, I go to my office and sit down. I close my eyes. I force away the memories from before, of sun dresses and naked legs, of lipstick and alcohol, of freedom that never did me any good.

 

*

 

Aunt Lydia, Janine says, and I like the sound of my name on her tongue. I used to have another one, before, a much less pretty one, with lumps of consonants that obstructed one's breath. _Lydia_ rolls off the tongue, like a lilting melody.

Aunt Lydia, may I sit down?

Yes, dear.

I smile at her. I like it when she calls me aunt.

I like to have her here, in my office.

When their training is done, they shed their names for good and take on those of their new masters. A necessary sacrifice, but hard for some. They forget, I console myself, they will adapt. It is hard for them, their minds are still attuned to false mores of another time. But every day helps, every lesson helps. My Lord has given me the patience to believe this.

I make Janine a cup of tea, a little indulgence which is well-deserved. Meek and mild-mannered, she has taken the lessons to heart. And yet she's so starved for affection, for approval and caresses, as if the Saviour's love couldn't fill her all by itself.

Janine will make me proud, and yet I will miss her when she's gone, her education ends in just a week. I pray to have these selfish considerations lifted from my heart.

 

*

 

For every year that passes, the memories grow weaker, and the time before becomes more vague and grey, a distant fog in the corners of my mind. Every night I thank the Lord for this.

My body isn't as strong anymore, but I don't need it to be. I am not a vessel of Life, only of Hope, and Hope does not require young, supple limbs.

It was never my destiny to be coveted, to be whistled after like a dog and picked apart like a piece of meat. Satan tempted me, made me cry at night because boys didn't look twice at me and because some of them called me _rat_ and _ugly_ to my face. Little did I know, then, of my Lord's mercy, that he spared me the humiliation and sorrow that comes from being used, like so many were in the old times, used and tossed away like a piece of rubbish.

My girls are all beautiful in their own way, if only because of who they are and what their bodies can do. They do not deserve that humiliation any more than I did. They deserve the honour that comes from our newfound Empire, built on rocks, not on sand.

 

*

 

The Salvaging is over. It's only my second one, a drab affair. But this will be better. This will be justice, revenge, the destruction of the destroyer by his own victims. It warms my heart to think about it.

I tell the girls to line up, and then the prisoner is brought forth, looking less like a human than the monster he is.

According to the charges, the crime was heinous. I do not question the information given to me. At any rate, it doesn't matter. The man, the _thing_, will suffer.

I tell them what he has done. There's a reaction: I see murder in their faces, the Life-givers longing to kill, on my signal. A surge, a storm, a roaring fire, women learning of their own power.

I blow the whistle.

And I stand back, waiting for the tide of red.


End file.
